I turned my gaze toward the portrait that still hung on the wall above my writing desk, and Flidais looked back at me, steadfast, tender, perfect. ‘She isn’t you,’ I whispered. ‘I can’t believe it. Tell me where you’ve gone. Tell me what I must do.’ I closed my eyes and tried to imagine how Flidais – the real woman, not the travesty that had come to Winterfalls – would reply to my letter. Dearest Oran, I am . . . No, try again. Oran, I know you love what I love: wild places, wild creatures, the beauty of the passing seasons, the wisdom of ancient tales. You must put your trust in what you love. Seek answers there.

Someone knocked on the door. I started in surprise; I had been lost in my imaginings. More likely, if she could see me now, Flidais would ask me how I had the gall to write such tender words when I had burned her letters.

‘Come in!’

Donagan, his features perfectly schooled. ‘It’s time you changed for breakfast and the meeting, my lord.’ He eyed the clothing I was wearing, garments snatched at random for my early walk. ‘You wish me to assist?’ Since our rift, he had mastered a detached tone; it sent a chill through me.

‘You know quite well I can dress myself,’ I said, failing miserably to make a joke of it. ‘There’s a letter here to my father; you might convey it to Muadan’s chief councillor to carry to Cahercorcan. And this list for the council. I’d like you to cast your eye over it. If you or Aedan have any items to add, please let me know.’

‘And that one, my lord?’ Donagan had noticed the letter on the table, neither folded nor sealed.

I felt oddly calm. It seemed Grim’s advice was sound; writing had steadied my thoughts. ‘I’ll deliver this myself,’ I said, taking up the sheet and folding it once, twice, three times. And I made a silent vow. I would keep this letter within my garments, next to my heart, until I found my Flidais again and put it in her hands.

34 Grim

34

~GRIM~

Cottage is looking good. I make some fancy bits for the roof, creatures and the like. Old folk say they’re lucky. Can’t hurt, anyway. Owl at the forest end, cow at the field end, others along the ridge: fox, hare, hedgehog, squirrel. Hedgehog takes longest, lots of straw prickles to thread in. I’m putting the last of the creatures up when one of the lads from the brewery, Pátraic, arrives to give me a hand.

‘Fine morning,’ he calls. ‘What do you want doing?’